The Die Is Cast by Fuin  

Kin No More

The die was cast, as the Teleri say, when he took up his sword earlier this night, was it not? Or it had been cast in Alqualondë already, when he had refused to do so, but still embarked on the stolen swan-ships; only one half of him the loyal son, the other half fleeing the quays from which rivers of the blood of his mother's kin flowed into the ocean, and he had crossed the sea to uncertain shores. Perhaps, it had been cast some time in between, when unmoving, he watched his father and uncle pass the gates of Nargothrond, heads held high as they made for the ford to cross the river Narog. Celebrimbor's feet could well have been chiseled from the same stone as the decorated pillars that bore the weight of the mountain above.

Does it matter at all which exact decision led him here?

He stands in the middle of what was a lively market square in the morning, where now twisted bodies are strewn between smashed and tumbled-over stalls. The square lies at the foot of the Tower Hill. There is firm ground beneath his feet instead of wooden planks, and still it feels to him as though the cobble stone must give way at any moment and he must fall into Darkness. Blood stains his blade, Elvish blood, some of the bodies had lived before they had met with his steel. Is he a kinslayer now, someone he never wanted to be?

Clouds of smoke waft through the streets and canals, they burn in his eyes, they burn in his lungs, they rise up to the sky and there they hang heavy with the glow of burning reeds, of burning wood, of burning ships in the bay. There is no way for the Silmaril to fly across the sea. And if a fiery rain were to fall from those grim clouds above; it would just be a reflection to be expected, a natural continuation of the horrors below.

Kin no more, Celebrimbor tells himself as he spies the red-headed figure at the other end of the square. He blinks through the smoke as he draws closer, shoulders straight with a resolve he does not truly feel. Seldom are the Ambarussar separate from each other, and he will not stand a chance against both of them. He cannot tell, whether it is relief or sorrow he feels when he sees Amrod lying in a puddle of blood, limbs twitching helplessly. Being closer in age to the twins than they themselves were to Caranthir, there had been much affection between them. But that had been in another time. What is left of it is the knowledge that Celebrimbor had fought Amras many times in sparring matches since the day that Fëanor had forged a sword for the first time. He had won from time to time, and he remembers every movement of his opponent.

There ought to be regret in Amras' eyes. Oh, Tyelpë, he should say. We've made a mistake. Come, let us drop our weapons and go home. He might have said so, had he sworn a different Oath, and nevertheless it would have been too late.

Indeed, a spark of pain flitters across his expression, but still their weapons clash, flashing brightly in the terrible light of the fires. Amras wields the sword his father forged, and he dances the same deadly dance of the Noldorin princes from which their enemies flee in terror. Celebrimbor's own sword and the dagger in his off-hand are of a different making and during the years he was sundered from his forsaken kin he had learned a different dance. His movements flow like a river around Amras' strikes, just to come crashing down like the wrathful waves of the ocean a moment later.

He can see the surprise in his enemy's eyes. It should be enough to quench the fire of Fëanor's Son.

It is not.

The next blow is too fast, Celebrimbor's sight blurred by the sting of smoke, the angle too narrow to block or to evade. Pain flares up his sword arm, his muscles are set aflame as blood wells up from a deep gash in his forearm. Amidst the turmoil of battle, his sword clattering on the ground seems to be the loudest noise, deafeningly ringing in his ears. He stumbles and narrowly avoids the next unflinching strike. It would have been fatal.

With growing despair, he blocks Amras' sword with the dagger in his left hand. He cannot hold out for much longer, must find an opening to strike back soon. Before blood loss or his masterfully-made, meagre dagger set an end to the fight.

Then, Amras staggers. His eyes are open wide, his gaze, astonished and horrified, is set on something behind Celebrimbor. He does not hesitate. With a whirling movement that has no elegance left, he disarms Amras, sends his sword flying and him stumbling backwards. Celebrimbor risks a glance and in the distance, through smoke and flame, he sees a star fall and tumble into the foaming sea.

Amras makes a few more halting steps. Then, and Celebrimbor will never know, whether Amras consciously moved there or whether it was a whim of fate, he falls to his knees besides his brother's broken body. There is some life still left in Amrod, but no sense, neither recognition of his nephew nor of his brother. In a last moment of defiance, Amras reaches for the knife at Amrod's belt. But Celebrimbor is faster this time, and his dagger is set to Amras' throat before he can fully unsheath the knife. Realising his defeat, Amras reaches for his brother's hand instead of his weapon.

Celebrimbor takes a shallow, shaking breath. The smoke has finally come close to choke him and has made his eyes spill tears at last. He grabs the hilt of his dagger harder to steady his hand.

“Will you not call me a traitor at least?“ Celebrimbor asks, his voice raspy.

“Are you?“ Amras looks around, takes in the fire and death he has brought to this doomed city. “Are we both, then, nephew? Traitors and kinslayers?“

“You're my kin no more,“ he answers. “None of you are.“ He needs to hear himself say it again.

“Well then,“ says Amras with a tired voice, “is there anything you would like me to tell my brother, who is not your father anymore, when I meet him in the Darkness?“

There might have been a hundred things he would have said when the sky had been unclouded in the morning, but now his head is as if it were filled with smoke.

“No,” he says.

For a moment, he considers sparing his uncle, in remembrance of the warmth that had been his family before it had turned to roaring, all-devouring flame. The Silmaril is out of their grasp; it has crossed the border of Ulmo's realm and it had been established already that they cannot win it back from the hands of a Vala. There ought to be pity, mercy even.

But then it seems to Celebrimbor that all the fëar gathered in the Halls of Mandos are wailing in sorrow and in pain, and those houseless spirits who refused His call are shouting to him in wrath and in agony, all of them demanding an end, an end to the slaying of kin. Who is he to deny them, who is he to render a merciful judgement when so many have been condemned to death for the crimes of merely being an obstacle on the way or of being touched by the Light of the Silmaril, without ever taking it in hand?

All roaring flames will to turn to ashes in the end, and from the ashes that were the House of Fëanor, none will rise again before the end of time, for they are Celebrimbor's kin no more.

Amras looks him in the eyes, unblinking, unflinching, as Celebrimbor drives the dagger straight downwards into the soft spot above his sternum, through the great veins that lead to the heart. A mere trickle of blood stains the worn-down embroidery on the neckline of the surcoat when he pulls back the dagger, and the Light in Amras' eyes is fading into Darkness.

As his body slumps forward, head coming to rest on Amrod's shoulder, it does not feel like a victory.

Chapter End Notes

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